The Prisoner And The Warden
by SomeDamn Author
Summary: How different are the Prisoner and the Warden? What separates them? [One-shot, dark]


The Warden and his Prisoner.

The Jailor and the Inmate.

The Master and his Beast.

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><p>One couldn't exist without the other. He knew it, even as his fingers dug into the sides of his face, the nails piercing his flesh, drawing blood. He knew that the sound of grinding teeth, the silent scream of the broken soul that wasn't his own.<p>

And yet, in many ways, it was. It was his own blood that he could taste, and his own blood he could feel trickling down the sides of his face.

It was his own voice he could hear whispering in the back of his head, something unintelligible, yet, all the same, it was there, silently melding into the darkness, leading a quiet dance with Insanity.

The Jailor knew he needed to preserve their relationship, the bond that united two individuals broken beyond repair, twisted beyond recognition. Without it, there was no reality; there was no life for the Warden without his Prisoner.

He would walk, sliding his long fingers, once so elegant, so strong, so capable, across those rusted bars separating them. He could feel the coarseness of the metal. Once, long ago, those bars had been clean, had been strong, solid. He'd been so, so sure that it would protect him, keep him away from the insane inmate.

Ah, how foolish. How so naïve he'd been.

The darkness inhabiting the cell, once so repulsive, now seemed to embrace him, its arms reaching out, caressing his flesh. He could see nothing inside the cell. He didn't need to. He could tell, by the soft whisper, by the way it screamed, by the way it seemed to lick it's lips as a torn, lifeless smile played across it's maw, that it was still there, and it would be there, even as he would rot away, prisoner to the entity he was guarding.

He sat there quietly, listening, as it told him, his black cloak fluttering with the non-existent wind in the empty place. There was darkness everywhere, so dark you couldn't see your own body, and yet, for all he knew, it might've been so bright that he couldn't bear to open his eyes, lest he be blinded.

To him, it didn't matter. Black and white, after all, were the same things. One showed overflowing presence, while the other showed terrifying emptiness. Both of them were, in a way, pure, unblemished and untouched.

And true to their nature, Black could never have existed without White, and White wouldn't be what it was without Black.

He sat there, smiling as it laughed, insanity coating its rasp. He frowned sympathetically as it screamed, agony evident in its tenor. He sat there, lifeless, broken, staring at it, as it's claws dug into its own heart, fingers clawing out its own eyes, drinking its own blood, eating its own excrement.

And it was always staring back.

The King and The Horse.

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><p>He didn't know how he'd changed, he didn't know when, where.<p>

All he knew was that it had taken one question, one fraction of a second, to feel that doubt, to be genuinely crushed by that question. And that one question had destroyed him entirely.

Oh, how he wished he could go back, and tell himself, never, never ask that question again, and lead a perfect life. How he wished...how he wished...

But it would be to no avail, of course. Nothing would change now. Brooding about it wouldn't make a difference.

* * *

><p>The one doubt that had wrecked him...<p>

When he stared up, he didn't know what he could see. Was it the blue, cloudless sky, stretching on for miles and miles and miles, open to the entire world?

Or was it the cold, gray ceiling of a cage, inhibiting the madness inside him, restricting the insanity, reducing it to a mere scream, a gentle whisper?

Was he inside the Cage, or was he outside it?

When he ran his fingers across the rusted bars, was he delighting in his Prisoner's slavery, or was he agonizing over his own? When he looked at the window, was he inside it, or outside?

Was he the Warden, or was he The Prisoner?

Which one was it? Which one...which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one... which one...

And as his tears dropped onto the spotless floor, his laughter seemed to echo off the walls of the non-existent room. His fingers dug into his skin, his hands pulling out strand after strand of hair, his mouth wide open, his eyes full of wild, torrid lifelessness.

Was he laughing, or was he hearing his own scream?

* * *

><p><em><strong>I do not suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.<strong>_

**- Edgar Allan Poe**


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